


Only Sleeping

by Casafrass



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Discussions of death, M/M, Sick George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass
Summary: Paul visits George while he still can.
Relationships: George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	Only Sleeping

Paul hated hospitals. 

Ever since he was a boy, hospitals had been a place of fear and grim expressions. If you had to go to one, it was natural to assume the worst. 

Even when Linda had given birth, Paul had been itching to go outside for a cigarette. He’d been jittery, like the nurse was going to drop dead of fever any second. Mary and Stella and James had all been beautiful and Paul could’ve stared at them for the rest of his days—

—In the comfort of his own home, of course. 

And then, Linda had gone back to the hospital and she never... 

No, no. Paul wasn’t going to think about that. Not today. 

As he walked down the hall, Paul wondered who had occupied this particular room before. He hoped that person had been released from the hospital and not purposely moved out. Some part of him wanted to flag one of the nurses down and ask who had been in the bed before and why wasn’t he or she there anymore? 

He didn’t. 

Instead, he set the pile of cards the kids had sent down on the little wooden nightstand and pulled the hard cushioned chair forward. 

George didn’t speak much these days. The oxygen tubes limited his conversation capacity, making his words stuck in his throat. Usually he preferred to write instead. 

But today, it seemed he was doing better. He didn’t reach for the paper pad like last time. 

Paul smiled and licked his lips before he spoke. 

“How’re you doing, Georgie?” 

George scoffed and shook his head, weathered eyebrows dipping. 

“I’ve never let you call me that in all the years I’ve known you. Today is not the day you get to start.” 

“Got to try, haven’t I?” 

George laughed but it was cut off by an especially harsh cough. Paul’s smile dropped. 

“Pass me th’water?” 

Paul handed him the paper cup with the little blue straw. George drank, breathing becoming disrupted. He paused and put the water down, panting like he’d just run a marathon. 

He’s so thin. George had always been thin, but he’s been especially so the last few times Paul had come to visit. His face is gaunt, eyes sunken in. His hair has lost most of its body, now completely gray. 

It doesn’t feel so long ago when they were all together in their prime; young, vibrant twenty-something year olds. George had always been beautiful. Striking eyes, plump lips, carved cheekbones. Now it had all been eaten away by his own body. 

It’d happened so quickly too. Paul remembered a few years ago how there had been hope for the treatment. George might get better, might have a chance. 

Now he was confined to a hospital bed with a dozen wires and tubes strapped to him. 

Paul always thought they’d grow old together. He’d said so, once or twice. John shared in that sentiment too, promising they’d all be wrinkly old men hollering song lyrics at each other. 

He knew deep down that wasn’t going to happen. Knew that George had to leave soon. 

Paul reached over but let his hand linger, suddenly unsure. His fingers rustled gently against the crisp sheets. 

“What’re ye doin’?” 

George’s eyes were piercing, though not unkind. He glanced at Paul’s hand, then returned to his face, studying him carefully. 

“I dunno.” 

George’s gaze softened. 

“Stubborn till the end,” he rasped fondly. 

“No, ‘m not.” 

They were Liverpool lads, born and bred. You didn’t hold your best mate’s hand unless you were looking to get a couple teeth knocked out and called all sorts of ugly names. Paul’s hand had slipped, that’s all. 

“Come on. Take it.” George felt for Paul, stretching his neck a bit. 

_“I wanna hold your hand...”_ George sang quietly, voice straining to get the notes out. 

Paul looked unusually lost for a moment. He hesitated, then picked up George’s hand, threading their fingers together. George hummed and brushed Paul’s knuckles gently, letting his head relax back into his pillow. 

“I saw John the other day.” 

Paul froze, stomach dropping. George’s eyes are still closed. 

The doctor had said this might happen. That the cancer might spread to George’s brain and his memories would become jumbled. 

George snorted at Paul’s expression when he didn’t respond and squeezed his hand hard. 

“In my dream, ya lark. I may have two barely functioning lungs but everything’s still here.” He tapped his temple. 

“Well, no one says it like that.” Paul wasn’t really angry though. 

“Sorry. Anyway, it was like he visited me here. And I asked him if I was gonna see him soon. He just shrugged. Typical Lennon.” 

“You don’t get to see him before me or Rich,” Paul announced, like it was law. 

“If he’s still the bastard he was, I don’t know if I’m so eager t’see him.” 

“You made up, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. 

George shrugged. 

“I guess,” he agreed, voice quieter. 

He thought for a moment. 

“He really wasn’t so bad.” 

Paul grinned despite himself. 

“Thought he was pretty decent m’self.” 

“I always thought you two would get back together, even after everything.” 

Paul knew George didn’t mean to sting with that sentence. It’s Paul’s fault, really. John had been gone twenty years now. Paul was still hurting, like his death had been this morning. 

“George?” 

“Hmm?”

“What— what else happened? In the dream.” 

“I asked John if dying hurt. Well, obviously it hurt, can’t imagine it didn’t for him. But he said after a while, you stop feeling an’ it’s very calm.” 

George tilted his head. 

“Maybe that’s my subconscious tryin’ to rationalize things. It’s a nice thought, though. I’m gettin’ tired of hurting.”

“You can’t leave us, Geo.” 

Paul’s throat felt tight. He cupped George’s hand with both of his. 

“I don’t want to,” George told him gently. 

“But I can’t be afraid, yeah? That’ll just make all of this more painful.” 

Paul shook his head. Why was this happening _again?_

“I think we knew each other in a previous lifetime,” George said thoughtfully, moving to lace his fingers with Paul’s. 

“Our souls just kept finding each other. ‘S why we’re so close. I’ll see you again, I’m sure. We’ll get sick of each other all over,” he grinned. 

Paul didn’t mirror him. 

“I don’t want you to go now. It’s not enough time.” 

Paul’s nose burned and he sniffed, not wanting to scare George, because that‘s not fair at all. 

George smiled wanly, almost looking like himself again. Paul felt useless. George with his deep eye bags and colorless cheeks, looking impossibly small tucked in the hospital bed. And Paul couldn’t do a damn thing to fix any of it. 

“Take care of Rich, alright? His daughter an’ everything.” 

Paul swallowed a choked sound, nodding fervently. 

“Remember those photos we took? And that peacock kept followin’ us around?” 

“And we thought it was John.” 

“Yeah. I wonder what sort of bird I’ll visit as.” 

Paul gnawed the inside of his cheek and wiped the corner of his eye. 

“I like doves. They’re peaceful,” George sighed. 

He settled back and closed his eyes once more, breathing slowing down. 

“George?” Paul startled him anxiously. 

“’m here, Paul, don’t worry.” He squeezed Paul’s hand again. 

“Just need to rest. Stay? Liv’s comin’ in a bit.” 

“Of course.” 

Their hands didn’t disconnect once. 

“Try to hold on,” Paul whispered. 

It’s horribly selfish of him to say that, but he really doesn’t want George to make peace with the idea of death. He needed George to stay. It wasn’t fair that all the people he loved kept leaving. 

George took a breath, and it sounded more labored than before. He nodded sleepily anyway. 

“I won’t go.”

They both knew that was a lie.


End file.
